


How Clint Barton got to be Clint Barton

by cuphugaddict



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Town (2010)
Genre: Crossover, Homophobic Language, I'm Bad At Summaries, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Okay...I do know, Please Don't Hate Me, This is what happens when I watch 'The Town' right after two episodes of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., What Was I Thinking?, i don't even know what this is, see below, unbetad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:37:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3736030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuphugaddict/pseuds/cuphugaddict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another scenario how Clint Barton joined S.H.I.E.L.D.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Clint Barton got to be Clint Barton

 

 

It was just his luck, typical. Murphy’s fucking law.

First, that goddamn guy with the money didn’t show up, then of course, it was only half of the fucking money. Took him about another twenty minutes to get some coke that covered at least part of what was missing. Because if he showed up with less than expected, he was the fucked one. And then the damn cops, just coming around the corner like that. So he had to get his shit together and run for it. Thing was, when you’re in a part of town you don’t go every day – or at least once in a while – unexpected shit can happen to you. Like ending up in an alley behind a gay bar.

 

To be fair, he didn’t realize that particular fact at first.

Sure, he noticed a couple snogging against that damn brick wall, but hey, nothing unusual about that, right? Plus, he didn’t pay the two people any attention. His priorities were elsewhere – like not to get caught with a shitload of money in his backpack plus some dope that wasn’t even his. But then, people – male people – started looking. First he thought it was him, that he imagined things. Years in jail had caused some weird habits, even on him. Second thing he noticed was the lack of girls – like, there were zero of them. Third, one of those ogling guys called him darling. He sure wasn’t Einstein or anything, he knew that, but by then even he got what was going on. James fought the urge to start running again – ‘cause nobody ran away from a bunch of faggots, right?

 

Still, he shrugged a little deeper into his sweatshirt and toughly rounded the corner. At least he pretended that he did and hoped it looked somewhat self-conscious. Next thing on the fucked-up list was that he did round the exact corner that led directly to the entrance of the club. Just his luck, again. He could as well have taken the other one and be on his way, away from those fags but no, of course not. Still, he had to admit that it didn’t even look that bad – for a gay bar, that was. And from the outside. He sure as hell had never seen one from the inside and he preferred it to stay the way, thank you very much. An involuntary shiver ran down his spine, just thinking about what would go on in … - No. He would not go there; this wasn’t something for him to think about. What he should focus on was to get that damned backpack to the Town, hand it over to Fergie, go home and get some beer. Maybe a girl on the way there. He would have earned it – that much was sure.

 

Suddenly he bumped into something – or rather somebody, according to the pinstriped shirt. Still overly aware of the area he was currently trying to get out of, he shot an angry “Watch where you fuckin’ going man, will ya?” Sure it was his fault, he had been the one who had looked down on the ground while hurrying to get out of there, but the other guy must have had his eyes somewhere as well – otherwise he would have seen him. James rather not thought on whom or rather what those eyes might have been. Plus, rule number one from where he came from was: You know what you’re doing, so you didn’t do anything wrong. Okay, maybe it was rule number three, after: _Don’t get yourself killed_ and _Never forget who you still owe_. But definitely number three.

 

“I must apologize; I didn’t look where I was going.”

 

James’ head shot up, involuntarily, of course. That voice – it was so … calm. Never had anybody replied in such a calm voice when he had just insulted them. Also, the friendliness was highly unusual. Was he really that far away from home?

The Townie found himself face to face with another guy (yeah, no shit), around thirty years old, a little smaller than him, brown hair, blue eyes with little, kind crinkles around them … Woah, kind?! Quickly, he tried to regain his composure.

 

“Damn right you should apologize, running people over like that.”

 

“As I said, I’m sorry.” The man’s lips twitched slightly, as if he was making fun of him. Nobody made fun of him.

 

“What? WHAT?!! You got a problem man?” Christ, that guy was getting on his nerves.

 

Pinstripe-guy shook his head. “Certainly not. I was just thinking if I should buy you a drink for the inconvenience but decided against it. Not really your scene, is it?”

 

If James hadn’t learned a long time ago how to control himself, his jaw would have hit the floor by then. “Did you just fuckin’ ask me to join you in a gay bar? I ain’t no fucking queer, asshole.”

 

“Figured that. That’s why I didn’t ask.” The smile was back again. How did that guy look so calm? Then he realized that he just kind of insulted gays in front of a gay bar, which wasn’t really a wise thing to begin with. So with a “Fuck you, I’m outta here”, he turned around and made his way to the next bus stop.

 

After getting the backpack to Fergie, he decided against hooking up with a girl in a bar and went straight home to grab some beer. Thankfully, beer was something his shitty one room flat never ran out of. A man’s gotta have his priorities, right?

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Another rule of the Town was: Nobody messes with Fergie.

Damn lucky that it wasn’t James who Fergus blamed for the lack of his money – it were those other guys. But, as James had been the one who didn’t collect all the money, or drugs covering for the lack, he had to go and collect the rest. But it all was too good to be true.

As soon as he showed up at the meeting point, a shitload of guys started to beat the crap out of him. To be fair, he had known that something had been wrong, so he had immediately grabbed his gun. He was pretty sure that he shot two or three of those fuckers, and the others got what they deserved as well. No one messes with James “Jem” Coughlin, another thing that he learned in prison – even if he had learned it the hard way. But just because he had beaten them up pretty badly before they ran away like babies didn’t mean that he himself was completely fine.

 

His clothes were torn, he couldn’t properly move his left arm, his right ear was somehow injured ‘cause he didn’t hear properly anymore and he was pretty sure that his face looked like a herd of buffalos tramped over it – at least according to the blood that didn’t get stopped by his eyebrows anymore and consequently ran into his eyes. But he got the money. That was the most important thing. He had Fergie’s money and would return it to him and everything would be okay again. As he tried to get up, James noticed that his leg wasn’t quite working as well. But it was nothing too serious, he was sure. He still could walk, even if limping slightly. Taking the first few steps, he realized that it was probably worse than he first thought.

 

“Fucking shit” he muttered to himself as he sank back down on the ground. One hand curled around the backpack. Hopefully those guys wouldn’t come back – or more of them. Five fucking guys against him had been enough for one day. He let his head roll back and rest against the wall and closed his eyes for a second. He needed that. He needed that before he got his shit together and just got back home. Bad call, as he realized a few moments later.

 

“Jesus Christ, are you alright?”

 

He knew he was fucked right then. Even though he only heard the voice really muffled, he was sure that whoever that was, would be calling the ambulance. And he was fucked. The hospital would want to know how this happened and as he wasn’t the smartest of all people, they surely wouldn’t believe whatever he would tell them. And they would inform the police and they would investigate and he would be fucked. If there was one thing that he was afraid of, it was spending another few years in jail. Not because he couldn’t survive in there – that he could do just fine – but because he was afraid of getting out again. Yeah, that sounded strange, but the world just didn’t stop once you got into jail. It did for you, that much was sure, but not for everybody else. And when you got out, you had a goddamn hard job adjusting again.

 

And there it was, the inevitable hand on his shoulder. The bad one of course, the one he couldn’t move. James had a really hard time not to show any sign of pain. Maybe he could persuade the guy that had found him that it actually wasn’t that bad. Boo-fuckin-hoo!

Just as he thought his situation couldn’t get any worse, he was proven wrong. He found himself facing pinstripe-guy again. Yes, that one. That asshole, who had fucked with James’ head since that weird meeting five nights ago. Obviously, the other guy recognized him too. A quiet “Oh” left his lips, but James was too tired to care. It was damn funny how sometimes, after a fight you were just too tired to move – one second to another. So he settled on chuckling instead of saying anything.

 

“Shit, what happened?” pinstripe-guy asked.

 

“I tripped over my shoelaces and fell,” James croaked and chuckled again – at least before he started coughing.

 

“Don’t you smartass me.” The guy hardened his grip on James’ shoulder which made the other man wince.

 

“I suppose you don’t want me to call an ambulance … Or am I mistaken?” The eyebrows over the kind eyes rose while James’ own widened just a little. How did he know? Well, maybe it wasn’t that hard to guess anyway.

 

“No, don’t …”

 

“Alright, I should have a look at your shoulder …”

 

James flinched. “Don’t you fucking touch me, faggot.”

He knew he wasn’t in the best position to argue, but the last thing he needed now was some guy who helped him by fixing his shoulder or whatever and then wanting something in return. He could very well imagine what that something was. Fucking hell, no! Or that guy, today in a suit, only wanted to get him out of his shirt. Fucking gay office guys, drooling over those muscles that he built up in jail under the stares of guys, who were doing just the same. Just, not all of them came from offices. Some though.

 

“I see why you are hesitant but, let me put it this way: Either you let somebody – the hospital or me – take care of your dislocated shoulder or you won’t be able to move your arm some time soon. What shall it be?” The eyebrows rose again.

 

After briefly considering his options, James only mumbled an “Okay”. Honestly? He didn’t want Fergie or any of his guys to take care of his shoulder. If they even would.

 

“Okay” the guy only answered and got James as carefully out of his sweatshirt as possible. Still, the Townie couldn’t stop himself from wincing a few times. Each of his winces was immediately followed by a truly apologetic glance of the suit-guy. Why was he so nice to him anyway? Well, James thought, he would find out soon enough.

 

“Right, this is going to hurt …” the brown-haired guy started but James immediately stopped him.

 

“Woah there, okay, wait a second.” The Townie already hated that sassy look on the other one’s face. “Do you even know how to do this? I mean, not that you fuck up my shoulder even more.”

 

“I was a ranger for a couple of years, trust me, I know how to deal with dislocated limbs.”

 

That guy, that fag, had been a ranger? Seriously? James couldn’t imagine … Well, he couldn’t imagine anything anymore due to the sharp pain that shot from his shoulder right through all parts of his torso. He groaned out loudly and squeezed his eyes shut. Fuckin’ shit!

After a few deep breaths, James could think clearly again. Carefully, he tried to move his shoulder and found that it worked.

 

“Hey, easy. Don’t move it too much yet, we should get that bandaged anyway.”

 

James grinned. “Well, I don’t suppose you’ve got a bandana with you, eh?”

 

There, again. The eyebrows. James’ grin widened.

 

“Very funny. How far can you walk?”

 

“What?”

 

“My car is just around the corner and I could drive you … I don’t know, wherever you want me to.”

 

James’ alarm bells shrilled. This wasn’t good, at all! “Hey listen …”

 

“Yes, yes. I get it. You think I want to get into your pants - which might have been true the other night. But believe me, I’m really not into the injures-all-over-the-other-guys’-body-kind-of-thing.”

 

Just then James heard something that sounded vaguely familiar: police sirens. Sure, he couldn’t hear all too well, due to whatever the fuck had happened to his ear, but that was a sound you never forgot – not when you lived in Charlestown anyway. James sighed. So what would it be tonight? Police or fag? After a few seconds of hesitance, the Townie decided against the keepers of justice and looked up at the suit.

 

“I guess I’ll make it to your car.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

The only thing wrong with the ride home was that it didn’t end at James’ flat. Not that the guy wouldn’t have driven him to wherever the Townie would have told him. James had to give him credit for that. But James had realized two things about halfway into Charlestown:

First, he didn’t want the other guys – that meant Fergie, at some point – see who dropped him off in a black, high-class car, and, more importantly, in which state the he was. Plus, the police would probably be looking for him there. Better he would not be home looking like a living punching bag. Second thing was, that he didn’t want Pinestripe/Suit-guy know where he lived. Just in case.

 

And that was how James “Jem” Coughlin ended up in the, admittedly quite nice, hotel room of Pinestripe/Suit-guy. Only as the brown-haired man had locked the door he realized that maybe, this wasn’t one of his best ideas. Sure, he could keep that guy at a distance, no problem there. He had survived in jail, for fuck’s sake. Still, it would be … unpleasant, as Pinestripe/Suit-guy liked to phrase things. That James’ injuries surely were unpleasant, as was his situation. Unpleasant! James snorted. Unpleasant. … Yes, surely this whole fucking mess was unpleasant; he had to give him credit for that one too.

 

“Why don’t you go and sit down in the bathroom? I’ll be there shortly.” The other man said with that damnable calm voice of his.

 

“What the …?”

 

“Just go and sit down on the edge of the bathtub, for Christ’s sake, will you? I don’t want you bleeding over the whole hotel room.”

 

Even though that guy seemed to lose his patience bit by bit – and yes, James tried his very best – he never raised his voice. And that was something Jem admired, admired because he wasn’t used to it. Everyone he knew screamed and shouted and fought. Sometimes with good reasons, sometimes with bad ones and sometimes with no reasons at all. And this was why James felt uncomfortable, because he wasn’t able to put his finger on the man’s behavior. He had learned the hard way that you only saw the true nature of a person, when said person was completely freaking out and/or nervous as hell. That was how he could put certain people into the according boxes. And right now, the only box his “host” fit in was the Pinestripe/Suit-guy box.

 

Still, James did as he was told and sat down on the edge of the bathtub. Backpack right under his legs. He wasn’t fucking stupid after all. A few moments later he heard the other man approaching. The clicking noises of really expensive shoes on a hardwood floor. James frowned, thinking back on his many trials. For once, he was almost happy to see the other guy, standing there in the doorway with one hell of a first aid kit. What was that thing? Ranger special edition?

 

“Okay there, how are we going to do this?”

 

“What do you mean, how are we going to do this?”

 

“I mean that I need to have a look at your … well, arms, leg, face … and the ear as well, or am I mistaken?”

 

James only looked up to the guy in awe. Yes, the arm was obvious, as well the leg as he had been limping all the way. The face was quite obvious too, even if he had done a pretty poor job of wiping it with the hem of his sweatshirt during the car ride. But how the hell did that guy know about his ear?

 

“You always turn your head as if you couldn’t understand what I was saying when I am to your right”, Pinestripe/Suit-guy explained. And that was when James gave up. Because he was tired, because he was hurt all over his fucking body, because he was fucked – truly fucked, as the police was probably looking for him and Fergie was still without his money – and because he felt that Pinestripe/Suit-guy was the only one who actually gave a damn about him. As weird as that sounded.

 

“All right, Mr. Smartass – You know what? Do whatever you want. I don’t care. Just … don’t make it worse.”

 

If James wasn’t mistaken, there was a tiny smile tugging on the lips of the other man. “I’ll do my best.”

 

James nodded and closed his eyes. First, the older man tended to his face, wiped all the bruises with a damp washcloth, disinfected them and even dealt with James’ arguing about a patch that he absolutely didn’t need (and now wore nonetheless). Afterwards, Pinestripe/Suit-guy had a look at his ear – and said that he was quite worried. The punch to the side of James’ head had been severe, and the reduced ability to hear might never go away. In a moment of panic James wanted to go and see a doctor – fucking hell, he needed his ear to do its fucking job – but the other man calmed him down and said that nobody would be able to do anything tonight. And tomorrow, he would call a specialist that should have look at James. After Jem’s minor freak-out, Pinestripe/Suit-guy peeled him carefully out of his sweatshirt and his t-shirt. No too serious damage there though – thank God. That was the part that worried the Townie the most. The fag, who let his hands travel over his whole naked torso, checking each and every bone twice. “Just in case”, as he said. After enduring that, it was time for the leg. But as well as with his upper body, it wasn’t too serious damage. Pinestripe/Suit-guy bandaged his foot and assured him that it would be better in a few days. As he announced that it was all done, he guided James into the bedroom of the hotel room. The emerging fear was again replaced by gratefulness, as the older man presented him with clean clothes. Afterwards, he left James alone – but not without asking if he was able to do it all on his own.

 

As soon as the door was closed, James sank down on the bed, the really, really soft bed and took a few deep breaths. He tried to figure out what the hell had happened tonight, how he got himself into this fucked up situation – and came up with no solution. He had done nothing wrong; he had even won a fight against five guys and still got out with the money. But the problem was that the money wasn’t with Fergie – it was with him. With him in a fag’s hotel room in the wrong part of Boston. Jem sighed and let himself fall back onto the bed. Even if it hurt, he didn’t mind.

 

What a fucking mess.

 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 

James woke up with a start.

He didn’t know where he was. Panic rose up in his chest as he was sure that this bed was way too comfortable to be his own. He sat up in disorientation and a sharp pain shot through his arm. He blinked and tried to adjust his eyes to the darkness. Slowly, the happenings of the previous night came back to him. He had been in a fight, Pinestripe/Suit-guy had taken him to his hotel room and he had fallen asleep. Not wise, James scolded himself.

 

The Townie got up, walked over to the window and looked out onto the city. The sun was about to rise and Jem could make out all the little details – like the guy who delivered newspapers, a few joggers and what looked like a baker opening his shop. Out of the distance, everything looked peaceful. Jem knew that it was bullshit, but sometimes he caught himself thinking about how a peaceful life could look like. He wasn’t even sure himself if he could stand eternal piece in his life – most likely not – but was it too much to ask that for once, you didn’t have to run anymore? Just for a day or two?

 

The dark-blonde man walked over to the bed again and carefully stripped his torn clothes off – the remaining ones, that was. Pinestripe/Suit-guy had placed clean clothes in this room for him, but he had been too tired to put them on before he had been out like a light. Now, he tried his very best – and succeeded with the pants, but due to his arm the shirt was a problem. Jem groaned and made his way out of the room. He didn’t expect to find Pinestripe/Suit-guy sitting at the kitchen island with his laptop open and typing furiously when he entered the living area.

 

“Ah, good morning”, the man greeted him as soon as Jem had set foot into the room. Once again he wondered about the fancy hotel room.

 

Jem mumbled something that absolutely could go as a similar greeting as well – at least in his head. The other man only nodded in his direction and went back to massacre his keyboard. James sat down on one of the cushioned chairs and winced slightly while doing so. His side hurt like hell. He waited for the other man to make a move or to say or do anything besides typing like a madman, but no such luck. Only when James had almost fallen asleep again due to the constant clacking of the keyboard, Pinestripe/Suit-guy spoke: “Where is your shirt?”

 

“What?” James responded sleepily.

 

Pinestripe/Suit-guy gestured vaguely in his direction. “Why aren’t wearing a shirt?”

 

“You know, it is a bit of a hard job to get into one with a bandaged arm and what feels like various knives in my side.” The other man only rose an eyebrow. “But I’m sure you’ll be happy to help, right?” Jem tried his best grin while Pinestripe/Suit-guy only rolled his eyes. Nevertheless, he went into the room James had just come out of and returned to the Townie with a shirt that made its way slowly (and awkwardly) onto Jem. “That worked out pretty well …” James stated once he was dressed again whereas the other man only said “You’re welcome” and went back to his laptop again.

 

“Today around noon there will be a specialist arriving to look after your ear … and there is coffee on the counter.” Pinestripe/Suit-guy told his screen, which made James roll his eyes. Nevertheless, he went over to the coffee machine and searched the cupboards for mugs while muttering, “Whatever you say, boss-man”. Once James was seated across the kitchen island with his mug of steaming coffee that smelled delicious, he took in his surroundings for the first time.

 

“You know, this is a hotel, in case you haven’t noticed”, James started, once he had properly realized the _kitchen island_. As Pinestripe/Suit-guy only looked questioningly over his laptop, James continued, “I’m pretty sure you could have ordered coffee and not make it yourself.”

 

“This was a longer stay. I like to be able to make coffee whenever I want. … Considering that the mission has miraculously extended itself …” a pointed look in Jem’s direction, “I consider the kitchen and more importantly the coffee pot a good investment.”

 

“Woah there, wait a second! Mission, the fuck? I’m not your mission.” James was sure that he had misunderstood something.

 

Pinestripe/Suit-guy looked at the backpack that lay on the room’s sofa. “That money in there is for Fergie, or am I mistaken?”

 

Right in that moment, James experienced a minor panic attack. How did this guy know about the money? Had he looked into the backpack? How did he get the backpack in the first place? Had Jem left it in the bathroom? How did Pinestripe/Suit-guy know about Fergie? Was he police? Did that mean jail? What was that guy playing at? And, most importantly: _Where was his gun?_

That train of thoughts rushing through his brain in about a second, no one could blame him that he dropped the coffee mug, right? Pinestripe/Suit-guy took offense though. “Was that really necessary? We’ll have to pay for that.”

 

James wasn’t sure if he should try to run. It wouldn’t be the easiest thing, considering his current bodily state. So he prepared himself for whatever was to come – he had no idea – and sat stock still as the guy rounded the kitchen island. He only realized that he was holding his breath when Pinestripe/Suit-guy looked up from where he had knelt down to inspect the stain and said, “No need to hold your breath though – we just might get that stain out of the carpet again.”

 

“Who the hell are you?” James asked, once Pinestripe/Suit-guy had come up again. With the coffee mug of course.

 

“Phil Coulson”, Pinestripe/Suit-guy answered and offered his hand, “Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division”.

 

James’ brows furrowed, “The fuck?”

 

“Yes, it’s a pretty tough name, we’re working on it. … And you are James Coughlin. Nice to officially meet you”, the man said and pulled back his hand again – unshaken by Jem.

 

“What the fuck do you want from me? Why do you know who I am? And who the hell are you? And don’t you Phil Coulson-me again!”

 

The man facing him seemed pretty amused by now, which Jem found more than unnerving.

“We have been monitoring Mr. Ferguson’s … activities for a while now. As well as the ones from his, let’s call it, employees, like you. We are usually not dealing with robberies but in that particular case, we make an exception.”

 

“And why am I so fucking lucky that you’re making an exception for me?” Jem asked sarcastically.

 

Pinestripe/Suit-guy – no, Phil – grinned. “Actually, there are three: For once did you and your gang rob money from our agency. That one we didn’t like. The second thing is that Mr. Ferguson is getting more and more influence all over the country through an underground network – that one, we also don’t like. And third, you are a man with admirable skills, Mr. Coughlin. That, we do like.”

 

It was all too much for Jem to take in. Those people, those Strategic Home-something Division people were monitoring him? What on earth did that even mean? And skills? What skills did he have – except messing everything up constantly? The Townie only gasped for air as he looked right into the ever calm face of Phil Coulson. “What –“, he finally managed, “What are you going to do to Fergie?”

 

“Well”, Phil started to pace the room, “We will imprison him in one of our facilities – hopefully after he has given us some information about his network.”

 

Jem shook his head stubbornly, “No way, he will never give you information about any of his activities without evidence. And you have no evidence, do you, Mr. Smartass?”

 

Phil only looked over to the backpack on the sofa. “Shit!” James felt as if his jaw really hit the floor this time. “So, all this time you … what? You were after the money?”

 

Phil curled his lips, “I’m sorry to ruin the magic of the moment in front of the gay bar for you.”

 

James huffed. “Yeah, that wounds me pretty fucking badly. But I knew this couldn’t be true.”

 

“Would you mind elaborating that?”

 

The Townie waved his hands in front of him, “That you were gay and a ranger. Or weren’t you a ranger? Was that a lie as well?”

 

Phil grinned, “I have been a ranger and I only said that I lied to you about the romantic intentions that night. I never said I wasn’t gay.”

 

“So you still want into my pants then?” James asked and suddenly his old, cocky self was back. He didn’t know how or why, but it was a good thing that it had happened because he usually used it as a kind of shield.

 

The other man only waved his head with a grin, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

 

Jem sighed, “So what now, boss-man? Am I going to jail again? Should I work as a double agent undercover for you to get you some evidence? Because that one, you can forget immediately.”

 

Phil went back to his laptop. “The money is evidence enough to arrest him. Even if it was you who picked it up and not Mr. Ferguson himself. We have built the case, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

 

James shook his head, “Yeah, but what you didn’t think about was that you’re ruining my life, right? I can’t go back to Charlestown like this. I’m outcast now as I have helped to arrest Fergie. They gonna kill me. You didn’t think about that, boss-man, huh? … Ah, you probably don’t need to because you don’t give a fucking damn about people like us. We’re only scum to you …”

 

“Are you done?” that Phil-person asked after Jem’s outburst, “Because we did think about that and we are making you an offer.”

 

“Who is we? That Strategic-whatever-thing?”

 

Phil nodded, “The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, yes. We are offering you a job.”

 

James fought the urge to smash his – or Phil’s – head against the kitchen island. “I don’t want a job with you! I don’t even know what you do, I have never heard of that thing before. I can’t even remember the name for the life of me, for fuck’s sake!”

 

Phil folded his hands on the counter and looked all business-like at James. “There is a reason that you never heard of us. We are a secret espionage, law-enforcement and counter-terrorism agency and we would be glad to have somebody with your skills in our team. Of course, that would require a lot of training and you would get a new identity …”

 

“Stop there for a second, James Bond. What skills? I don’t have any talent what.so.ever.”

 

“That’s where you are wrong, Mr. Coughlin. You are a team-player but can work on your own as well, you are a strategist and you have an amazing visual range, as we could conclude from the robberies you participated in. No matter if you shot out of a bumping car or from the roof of some building, you never missed any target. That’s admirable.”

 

James was stunned. That was true – at least so far. So this Strategic-whatever-agency wanted him because he could shoot people. He didn’t know if he liked that. “What do you mean with getting me a new identity?”

 

“Well, obviously”, Phil started, “we can’t hire you as James Coughlin. You are a searched for by the police, you robbed banks, et cetera. That only makes a lot of paperwork that might not pay off in the end. So we get you a new identity with an according backstory.”

 

“An according backstory! To me being good at shooting”, James mocked, “And what would that be? That I joined the fucking circus and was throwing knives from the back of a galloping horse in a glittery purple costume?”

 

Phil shrugged, “We could talk about that, although the final decision is up to the director.”

 

James started laughing, “All right, where is the camera? That has to be a joke!”

 

“I’m afraid not.” Phil stated matter-of-factly while James looked at him as if he had just told him that Santa Clause did really exist.

 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 

The good news was that James could still hear properly.

The bad news was that this would only happen with hearing aids. The punch to the side of his face had been so severe, that on his one ear, the hearing ability was reduced to next to nothing, whereas the other ear still had a capacity of about 50 percent. It had only appeared to James that he still heard pretty well with the other one because his other ear was practically muted. At least that was what that specialist Phil had hired had told James. And he had suggested that he should learn sign language. As if …

 

Another thing on the fucked up list was, that Phil Coulson had given “his” backpack to a pretty terrifying looking chick named Maria, (at least Jem thought she was called Maria – did he mention that he didn’t hear properly anymore? Especially when there were more people than he himself and that Phil-guy talking?) who had accompanied that doc. And so he was basically left with no other option than to take the offer of that Strategic Homeland blah-blah-thingy (he was getting better at this). So when it was only him and Phil again – and another pot of coffee – he tried to adjust to the new situation. He was good at stuff like this, he could do this. When being a criminal, you just had to adjust to everything that was thrown in your way. So he was sure he could do this as well. “So, boss-man … How does this Strategic Homeland whatever Division thing work?”

 

Phil smiled, “For starters try to remember the name.”

 

James shot him a pointed look but happily took a sip of the delicious coffee. Phil knew how to make some pretty badass coffee even with this shitty little machine on the kitchen island. So James leaned back on the sofa and listened to Phil Coulson – Agent Phil Coulson, apparently – how this whole training thing would work out. James wouldn’t even lie to himself and pretend that he got half of what that man was going on about but all things considered (and there were a lot of things to be considered in his fucked up situation) it didn’t sound so bad. He basically would do the same thing he had been doing since he had stolen his first soda: Doing stuff nobody should know about and trying to stay unnoticed. He could do that, he was pretty sure about that.

 

“Also, I have to say that I’m sorry how things have developed; that you are basically forced to agree to our offer. That is not how we usually work.”

 

James had the feeling that Phil really was sorry about that and he was developing a little soft spot for that man in the impeccable suit with the calm eyes, the little smile and the sarcastic answers, who tried to pronounce everything extremely clear since he knew how bad Jem’s ears were. So he replied, “Don’t worry – this is by far not the worst offer I got. … Not the best one either, but …” James winked and Phil grinned.

 

“You will like it, I promise.”

 

“I hope you can keep that promise, boss-man.”

 

Phil looked in an intense way at James – so intense that the Townie got goose-bumps. “I will try my very best, James. Somehow I am under the impression that not many people in your life did.”

 

James shuddered. How did that guy know him so well? Okay, probably it wasn’t that hard to guess anyway. “You know, somehow I think having a new name and everything won’t be so bad. To forget, you know …” Phil only nodded.

 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 

“What the _hell_ is that?!”

 

James – no Clinton, he was Clinton now – burst into Phil Coulson’s office in one of the many Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division training centers. The addressed man only looked up from his desk.

 

“Your new identity, Mr. Barton.”

 

“CLINTON FRANCIS BARTON?!! _Clinton_? Are you serious? Nope, no way. You’ll have to change that.”

 

“I’m afraid we can’t. We have already filled in all your official forms.”

 

That calm voice would be the end of him, the younger man knew that. He groaned, “Couldn’t you at least ask me?” He dropped gracelessly onto the chair in front of Phil Coulson’s desk.

 

“We usually don’t. … Have you read any further than your name?”

 

 _Clinton_ raised an eyebrow, “You mean that you are my SO? I thought that was very cheesy of you, boss-man.”

 

Phil’s lip curled again, “I was getting fond of the nickname.”

 

The trainee rolled his eyes but suddenly, his facial expression brightened – at least a bit. “Clint, I can live with Clint. So, call me Clint from now on.” He nodded, partly to convince himself.

 

“Whatever you want, Mr. Barton. Please also read the rest of the file and try to … internalize it.”

 

“Yeah, whatever you say, Mr. Agent.” _Clint_ said, took the file and went out of the office again. As he had another one of those meetings with truly frightening people in here to get his act straight, he considered, he could as well wait in the corridor instead of making it all the way back to his quarters. So he leaned against the wall and started flipping through his file, reading bits and pieces of his fake biography when suddenly …

 

“THE AMAZING HAWKEYE?! Phillip J. Coulson, I HATE YOU!” hollered through the corridors of the facility. Thankfully, Clint didn’t see the amused and partly satisfied grin on his SO’s face.

 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 

“This surely must be a joke.”

 

Phil sat on the sofa of the hotel room – yes, _that_ hotel room, the one that Clint always referred as _theirs_ – in Boston and felt his jaw drop. His boyfriend had just walked out of the bedroom in skin tight leather pants and a purple, glittery tank top.

 

“Aw, and I thought you like glitter-purple – as you put special emphasis on it in my file. I’m hurt Phil, seriously hurt.”

 

All Phil could do was blink. Yes, the whole circus-thing in Clint’s file had started out as a joke in his head after their bantering about Clint’s new identity, but he came to think that it would only make sense. Circus, unstable lifestyle, not many reports, no social security, et cetera. Perfect. So he had gone along with it. The purple was only a nice detail. But this was just too much.

 

“If your aim for tonight is to attract as much attention as possible then congrats, it will work.”

 

“My aim for tonight is showing off my bicep, in case you haven’t noticed”, Clint said with a wink and sat down on his boyfriend’s lap to steal a quick kiss.

 

“That works as well”, Phil added and Clint grinned, “So now, get off my lap or we will never get out of this room.”

 

“Would be fine with me, boss-man. We could put on some action on the kitchen island then”, Clint whispered into Phil’s ear but got off the other man nevertheless.

 

They were on holiday.

Fury had forced both of them to take time off. Whilst they were checking out the most popular holiday destinations via Google search, Clint had suddenly announced that they were stupid and that they wouldn’t be good at a pleasure cruise anyway. “Phil, we would be jumping into one of the rescue boats, paddle across the sea and hope that a shark attacks only to get some action within three days tops”, were his exact words. Phil had to admit that his lover had a point and so they somehow got the idea they would go back to where everything had started. Partly, Phil was terrified imagining Clint walking the streets of Charlestown – not because he worried that people would recognize him, too much had changed since then, but nevertheless is was the chapter of Clint’s life that the archer almost seemed afraid of – but the other part of him was proud. Proud of his boyfriend who was finally able to face his past. So that afternoon, they were walking the streets of James Coughlin’s neighborhood and even though Clint sometimes almost crushed Phil’s hand with his own along the way, everything worked out fine and without complications.

 

The idea of them visiting the gay bar they had first met in front of had been Clint’s.

How far away that very day seemed to Phil today. Never had he imagined that the homophobic asshole Clint had appeared at first to be his boyfriend for the last three years. There were reasons for that behavior of his though. Phil had found out about them after one operation where Clint furiously beat down their target who had tried to rape a young man. Even though Clint never hesitated to “apply the according measures” as it was labeled in their reports, he had never been unnecessarily cruel before. Later that day, Clint had told Phil that he had been raped in prison and that he just saw red as he witnessed the scene from earlier that day. Seeing Clint sitting across from him – silently crying – Phil’s heart had broke. Funnily enough that was the (probably worst) moment where Phil realized that he felt more for his former trainee than he should. Clint had known by then that Phil really was gay and wanted to know how anybody could ever enjoy something like that. “You’re a good man Phil, I know that. I can’t wrap my mind around how you could do that to anybody. Can you please explain?” Phil, by then on the verge of tears himself, had tried his best to explain that an act of love could never be so cruel and hurtful as Clint had the misfortune to experience. Clint had shyly smiled at him and mouthed an “Okay”. Over the next two years, both had been tiptoeing around each other until Natasha had had enough of both of their pining and arranged their first date herself (but that was an entirely different story). So today they wanted to go out and celebrate – and if Clint wanted to show off in his leather pants and the ridiculous shirt, he should. So Phil handed his boyfriend his jacket and both were on their way.

 

 

 

“Aw, bar, NO!”

 

Phil looked from the barricaded door to his lover and grinned at the way Clint stomped onto the ground like a five-year old.

 

“No I mean, seriously Phil. I am standing here – in that shirt, with eyeliner, mind you – and then the bar is closed. That’s just not fair.”

 

“Well, bad luck. We should have checked”, Phil shrugged, “I’m sure there are other bars, you will show off your bicep tonight, no worries. Just let me google …”

 

“But Phiiiiiiil! This was our bar. It’s sad, really.” Clint nodded to put further emphasis to his statement. Phil on the other hand, was really amused.

 

“Tragic. But we’ll find somewhere else to go …”

 

The glint in Clint’s eye told a different story though. “Or … Or we could make out against the brick wall that is thankfully still there. Hey brick wall!” Clint waved at the building.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Clint pulled Phil over to the bar and leaned against the wall with a crooked hip. “You know, when we met, I came around that corner”, Clint pointed in said direction, “and I saw that couple snogging against the wall.”

 

“And ever since this was on your To-do-list?” Phil asked with a smirk.

 

“You’re the one with the lists, but yes. Quite.”

 

“Okay, I can google later.”

 

“Now you’re talking, boss-man.”

 

 


End file.
